


Flames and Flight

by primeideal



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Creature Fic, Gen, Long timespan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-11
Updated: 2012-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-18 10:36:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primeideal/pseuds/primeideal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Potter is the Master of Death, but he's also in mourning after the final battle. A special friend helps him along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flames and Flight

**Author's Note:**

> For Creature Fest 2012 on LiveJournal. Thank you so much to Jakuako, who betaed on very short notice!

Harry meets him after a funeral.  
  
Which isn't surprising for a couple of reasons. Firstly, far more people know Harry than he is actually close to, and so he's constantly being introduced to people who just want to shake his hand and thank him before scuttling away. Secondly--more importantly, perhaps--he barely has any life beyond funerals. It's just condolences this and sympathy that.  
  
Harry doesn't mind the monotony of it all. Even when they're people he barely knows, it's an excuse to get out of the house, make small talk with others and deeper talk with his friends. But so many of these deaths--children, by and large, new recruits into Dumbledore's Army--were needless. Dumbledore was dead, Harry had gone, and still they'd given their lives for nothing.  
  
The day comes when Harry is too tired to say anything more, and after a tasteless snack or two at the reception, he wanders out to the garden. Most people are still inside, trying to find comfort in each other, so he's surprised to find a tall man sweating in the hot summer evening. With his bright red hair, Harry takes him at first for a Weasley relation. But his complexion looks Middle Eastern, and he's met all of the Weasleys at Fred's anyway....  
  
"Harry Potter?" the stranger asks, tilting his head to the side.  
  
"Er, yeah," Harry mutters. "I--I'll just be going."  
  
"There's no need."  
  
"I don't mean to get in your way."  
  
"You're not."  
  
Harry nods, leaning against a tree. "How'd you know Bathsheda?"  
  
"Through Dumbledore--that is to say--didn't we all go to Hogwarts?"  
  
"I guess so. Yeah. Were you at school with me? I'm sorry, I don't remember..."  
  
"I'm a few years older than you, though I suppose we would have been there for some of the same time."  
  
"I didn't catch your name?"  
  
After a split-second's pause, he says, "Guido," and from that moment on speaks with the hint of an accent. Spanish or--something. Harry isn't sure and is never able to remember afterwards if that had been there to begin with; he had been paying so little attention to anything at all in the preceding funereal weeks.  
  
"Nice to meet you," Harry lies.  
  
"I don't mean to pry," says Guido, "but may I ask you a question?"  
  
Harry throws his hand up. Everyone and their house-elf has a question for him. "Go right ahead."  
  
"Well, it's just, if you said you were leaving...."  
  
He had said that, hadn't he? "I'm in no rush."  
  
"How do you fly a broom?"  
  
Harry stares.  
  
"Everyone says you're a brilliant Quidditch player. I...got by at Hogwarts all right, but I'm rubbish on a broom. I figured you could give me some advice."  
  
"It's a  _broom_. You grab it and fly. I--look, one of my best mates can barely fly to save her life-- it's nothing to be ashamed of. But I don't think I'm a very good teacher."  
  
"Maybe you should practice some. Then give me some pointers next time."  
  
"Next time what?"  
  
"We meet at a funeral, I suppose."  
  
Harry shook his head. "There's too many of them."  
  
"It's the human condition, isn't it?"  
  
"Bit morbid of you."  
  
"Sorry."  
  
"It--" It's not all right, not yet. "There's nothing wrong."  
  
Guido nods. "Until we meet again."  
  
That night, amid the dusty rubbish of Grimmauld Place, Harry finds an old trunk full of his school belongings. There's a pile of wooden shards that poke at him he turns them over in his hands, trying to figure out what he would have done with them. Then he remembers his Nimbus 2000.  
  
He thinks back to the Elder Wand: how all he wanted to do with it was restore his old one. But it would be too easy to try and repair every bit of the past. There was a reason he had left the Resurrection Stone where it lay.  
  
He throws out the pile, tosses on his Invisiblity Cloak, grabs his Firebolt, and goes flying.  
  


* * *

  
  
Lupin and Tonks' funeral is one of the last. The guests are singing a hymn when a rich voice cuts through the monotone crowd. Harry looks around, his lips still moving distractedly, and notices Guido singing loudly.. Smiling to himself, he sings out a little stronger.  
  
Afterwards, it's his job to hold Teddy while Andromeda receives guests. Guido is there, too, squinting down at the baby but keeping his distance.  
  
"You want to hold him?" says Harry.  
  
"No, thank you. Unless you need to go to the bathroom or something."  
  
"I'm all right. You sure? He's cute."  
  
"I'm no good with babies. They're so.... They drool all over you." Teddy looks up at him just then and his hair turns black. "See? That's not natural."  
  
Harry smiles. "Tonks--Nymphadora--was like that, too." He glances over to the casket again. "It feels wrong to see her... _frozen_  like that. I just wonder whether she'd have--you know--found a way to use the magic, heal her injuries somehow."  
  
"I've been researching magical transformations. I believe it's possible, though, of course, that's no protection against curses."  
  
"If it were me, I'd hide this scar every once in a while. Or do something to keep a lower profile."  
  
"I suppose that's fair. Most scars are extremely hard to transfigure away."  
  
"Research?"  
  
"Personally-motivated." Guido pauses. "I have a few scars that have--only recently--become particularly visible." Harry looks him up and down--dark eyes, hair dyed perhaps, maybe an Egyptian by birth, but no scars. Noticing Harry's glance, Guido adds, "They're not somewhere I normally display in public."  
  
Harry snorts, then winces, thinking of Fred. "Sorry. You just...remind me of someone I knew."  
  
Guido nods. "Watch the baby's head."  
  
Harry shifts Teddy in his arms. "You know McGonagall, right?"  
  
"Minerva? Of course. Brilliant woman."  
  
"She's an Animagus. If you ever wanted to talk with her, she knows more than me."  _And so does Rita Skeeter, of course_ , he thinks, but then, some secrets are just as well ignored.  
  
Guido shrugs--an awkward gesture--slowly lifting one shoulder and then the other. "That's all right, I know enough to get me started. It's always nice having someone else to teach."  
  
Teddy whines and Harry begins rocking him back and forth. "I guess so."  
  


* * *

  
  
But for all her prying, it's not Rita Skeeter who's the first to interview Harry about the final battle. It isn't even a very frail Xenophilius Lovegood, restored to his house but trembling as Luna departs for school again.  
  
It's Guido, who Harry runs into at the Leaky Cauldron one day, meeting Ron and Bill for lunch. "I've been camping out at Bill's cottage," Guido explains with a shrug. "Apparently he's used to the company?"  
  
Harry and Ron exchange looks. "Long story," says Ron.  
  
"Don't you have a place of your own?" says Harry.  
  
Guido picks at his salad. "My old house was...attacked by Death Eaters a couple years ago. I stayed with my family in Egypt for a while. They knew some colleagues of Bill's here." He nods. "And now I'm trying to move."  
  
"What's the holdup?"  
  
"My finances are not--that is to say--I'm still in the process of getting my job settled."  
  
"Take as long as you need," says Bill.  
  
"I appreciate the hospitality. I'll be fine--soon enough. I'm thinking about writing a book--which, I recognize, is not the fastest road to profitability."  
  
"What about?"  
  
"History, in general. Researching specific anecdotes."  
  
"Have you met Hermione?" Ron asks.  
  
"Ah...I've heard the name. Granger, yes?"  
  
"Right. You'd like her. You could cite her entire library, I'm sure."  
  
Guido smiles. "And if I want to interview the famous Ron Weasley?"  
  
"Famous?" Ron gulps. "Think you've got the wrong bloke there."  
  
"I suspect not."  
  
"Well, er, obviously. Just don't ask dumb questions."  
  
"Is that a challenge?"  
  
"No."  
  
Guido nods. "What about you, Harry? For fact-checking Ron's answers, of course."  
  
"Does it have to be an interview?" Harry takes another sip of Butterbeer. "Can't it just be...you know, talking?"  
  
"I suppose. Unless the recent history of the wizarding world is an unusual topic for your conversations with friends, of course. But I won't jump to conclusions."  
  
Ron snorts. "Talk about Quidditch or something normal, he'll be fine."  
  
"Yeah," says Bill. "Do you support Egypt against England? Or what?"  
  
"I tend to root for the underdogs," Guido replies.  
  
"What about your club?" asks Ron.  
  
"I'm a lifelong Moutohora fan."  
  
"Seriously?"  
  
"No, not literally. I'm older than--that is, there was a time before I cared about sport."  
  
"That's fair."  
  
They get to talking about whether Tutshill can win the title again: Ron is skeptical, Bill resigned to the likelihood, Harry ambivalent, Guido attentive but contributing little of his own opinion. But before they've left, Guido and Harry have quietly arranged to talk about the war the next day. "I'm not used to sending messages by owls. Seems so inefficient. Even Muggles are faster."  
  
So they meet at Grimmauld Place, Harry apologizing for the condition. "I really need to go through and get rid of more of this. Just can never be bothered."  
  
"Don't worry about it," says Guido. "What was it Albus used to say? An empty desk is the sign of an empty mind."  
  
"Did he really?"  
  
"It may have been somewhat of an excuse." Harry isn't sure whether to laugh or brood, but Guido continues on. "I wanted to hear from you--there were lots of witnesses to the battle, but stories get jumbled up. It's true that you and Riddle conversed, there at the end?"  
  
"You call him Riddle."  
  
"That's his name, isn't it? I don't think we were on quite familiar enough terms to call him Tom."  
  
"I guess not. But--yeah. We talked."  
  
"Wandlore."  
  
"Right."  
  
"He had not been using his normal wand, is that correct?"  
  
"Yeah. He'd...he'd come to Hogwarts. Stolen Dumbledore--Albus's--wand."  
  
"And what had he done with his old one?"  
  
"I have no idea," Harry realizes--despite briefly sharing a head with the man. "As far as I know, the Ministry confiscated it when they cleaned out the Death Eaters' property."  
  
"I see. So, he was using Dumbledore's wand. But it didn't work for him?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Why ever not?"  
  
Harry pauses, thinking back to declaring why not in front of a crowded Great Hall. For the first time, he begins to think that wasn't such a good idea.  
  
"If you don't know, that's all right," says Guido. "Esoteric wandlore. I don't expect you to have all the information."  
  
"Oh. Oh, no, I--I do know the reason. It's just, this is not the kind of thing I want published."  
  
"I can keep it off the record, if you'd like. Some of my--narratives--are best purposed as fiction. There are...things I don't need a public audience to know either."  
  
Harry nods. "Have you heard stories about the Elder Wand? The Deathly Hallows?"  
  
"Of course. I believe Albus was quite fond of those--in his younger years."  
  
"You must have been close to him."  
  
"I--I suppose, much like Minerva, I was such an inquisitive student he had no choice but to put up with me. Longer than I deserved."  
  
"Yeah. So. I--I had disarmed Draco Malfoy, months before--the student who disarmed Albus, right before he died. Which made me the master of Dumbledore's wand. The Elder Wand. Which is why it didn't work for Voldemort."  
  
"And you still are?"  
  
"I guess. I don't use it, though. I like mine."  
  
"That doesn't appear to have mattered to Voldemort."  
  
"Understatement of the century."  
  
"And the other Hallows? Have you heard, are they myths?"  
  
Harry stares across the dusty room. "I--I don't know whether I should be telling you all of this."  
  
"Please don't feel pressured. I'll keep anything confidential that I need to, but even then, there's no need."  
  
"No--it's not that--it's just--I  _want_  to trust you. You--remind me of Albus; he trusted...."  
  
"Yes," Guido says gently, "he did."  
  
"And he died for it. I just--I wanted adults, who could keep us safe. But everyone grown up enough to fight was old enough to die, weren't they?"  
  
It's Guido's turn to stare before softly answering, "I suppose you are right."  
  
"Okay. This is off the record."  
  
"Understood."  
  
"Yes. I had them both, eventually. The Stone is...somewhere no one will find it. The Cloak is mine, still; it's been handed down through my family."  
  
"Then you are the Master of Death?"  
  
"I don't go on about it. But--yeah."  
  
"And when did you disarm Draco Malfoy?"  
  
"It was just this past spring."  
  
"March? April?"  
  
"March. The end of March."  
  
"The end of March," says Guido. "Okay. All right, then."  
  
"No one's going to care; if you write a book, put it in April if that flows better."  
  
"March is--March is all right. Thank you. That is helpful."  
  
"Anything else? The war, the--getting rid of Voldemort part?"  
  
"People thought you were dead at one point, what happened there?"  
  
"Well, I wasn't  _dead_ , exactly. I mean, I'd kind of gotten killed..."  
  
"Kind of."  
  
"But I wasn't dead--that came out wrong."  
  
"I understand."  
  
"I'm pretty sure you don't."  
  
"Go ahead and tell yourself that."  
  
Harry rolls his eyes. "Next question."   
  
"I'm done. Though I'm sure there will be other people that want to ask you that. When you are ready."  
  
"I--" Harry looks around the room again. On the one hand, the world envies him; he cannot be more ready. On the other, he feels like he might never be ready. "Okay."  
  
"Thank you. Very much."  
  
"Yeah, you're welcome. Any plans for today?"  
  
"I think I am going to London. Seeing about a wand."  
  
"A wand? Is yours broken?"  
  
"I--call it arrogance if you will--enjoy Apparating by wandless magic." Harry gapes and Guido blushes a bright red. "Forgive me. Between that and trying to get my housing sorted out--mundane business--I've...neglected to...replace."  
  
"It's all right. It's just, Ollivander's retired now. You'll have better luck on the continent."  
  
"Perhaps. Or perhaps the Ministry has a government auction."  
  
"You want--you want a  _Death Eater's_  wand? You want  _Voldemort's_  wand?"  
  
"It would be cheap."  
  
"Listen, you can do better than that. You can--you  _should_  stay here. Look at me; this place is a mess and I--I don't charge rent, let's put it that way."  
  
"Neither does Bill."  
  
"Yeah, but--I'll tell you this story, too. Bill and Fleur deserve a bit of privacy after how we invited ourselves over."  
  
"Oh. Well. I suppose you're right. I don't want a Death Eater's wand--the loyalty would already have been won by whoever defeated them." He smiles.  
  
Harry nods. "But you can stay here. I mean it."  
  
"I'll have to see about that."  
  
"Think it over. Really. We can go flying, too. That was what you wanted, the first time?"  
  
"I would appreciate that."  
  


* * *

  
  
Guido is a quiet housemate. He moves his possessions--which appear to be several Egyptian scrolls and little more--into Sirius' old room (Harry having set up in the master bedroom).  
  
"Do you--er--need robes or anything?"  
  
Guido pauses way too long before saying, "It's better than going naked, on balance. Don't need my scars showing."  
  
Harry rolls his eyes. "Okay. Let me know if you want--I can loan you some money? Or--"  
  
"I'll be okay. If you loan me some money you have to let me cook. Or clean out this place some more."  
  
"Guido," Harry tries not to snap, "I appreciate that you want to be helpful. I really do. But--I like eating  _meat_  sometimes." From what he could gather, most Egyptian sorcerers watched their diet, although Bill denied this. "And this  _is_  clean. Compared to when I first came."  
  
"I'll be the first to quote Albus on empty desks, but...it's dark. You should light some fires. Change it somehow. Make it your own."  
  
"I don't  _want_  it to be mine."  
  
"Then move."  
  
"On second thought, I'm fine here."  
  
"I don't think you're really fine. But I don't think moving would help."  
  
"Of course I'm fine. I'm alive. That's--plenty by my standards."  
  
"Some would say that you have low standards."  
  
Harry shakes his head. "Can't get too greedy. That'll just bring trouble."  
  
"Let's go flying," Guido says. "Always helps to clear my head."  
  
"I thought you were rubbish on a broom."  
  
"I  _am_  rubbish on a broom, but it's fun."  
  
If he'd needed to work for a living, Harry might argue the point more, but soon enough they're airborne. Guido has bought one of Ginny's old brooms and hugs it tightly at an ungainly angle. Harry let him borrow the Firebolt a few times, but Guido just seemed disappointed that it didn't leave literal bolts of fire in its wake.  
  
They've been at this often enough now that Guido begins to make conversation, once in a while, and can keep his mind on Harry without losing control of the broom and spiralling into freefall. This is very definitely progress.  
  
"You were a Seeker in school?"  
  
"Yeah. This is fine, though; I don't need the game, it's nice just to be in the air. I guess that's the closest position to just...flying for the heck of it."  
  
Guido nods. "You're built like a Seeker. Small."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"You should stay slender--"  
  
"Is this some trick to make me eat vegetarian food?"  
  
"Not fair for you Quidditch stars to be the only feinters."  
  
Harry rolls his eyes but finds himself laughing.  
  


* * *

  
  
It's strange, this feeling of going to work every day and then having a house to come back to at night. From what Harry's heard, Ron is staying at George's flat. But he's not sure how much of that is, in practice, just crashing on the couch and not wanting to get any of Fred's stuff in the wrong place.  
  
Auror training is draining: in terms of technical proficiency, he suspects he and Ron are well behind most of the other people that come through, mostly intuiting spells rather than memorizing procedure to follow. He tries to catch up, not because he's concerned about what test scores he gets but because he doesn't want special treatment; doesn't want to pass and then be helpless when some mundane trouble starts; doesn't want to think he's above the rules. Part of the problem is that there are two of them learning the ropes at the same time, which is rare, and then they're spending a couple days a week making sure all the Death Eaters are accounted for, which is even rarer.  
  
They do find Voldemort's wand after all: it had grown into a tree beside his grave. Harry had been the one to dully suggest burying him by his mother in the Muggle world; Hermione had tracked down the cemetery in question, saving him the effort.  
  
When he comes back, Guido is usually writing, reading, or out on business. He's asked for privacy when it comes to his research, and Harry obliges. The parchments full of squiggles that he leaves lying around aren't in any language Harry recognizes--maybe Ancient Runes, but for all he knows, it could be ancient hieroglyphics.  
  
Mrs. Black's portrait screams one day, early on, and Harry's made up his mind to ignore it and turn the Cannons' game up louder. Guido, however, begins singing to her. Harry doesn't recognize the language--not Egyptian; maybe Italian? But after a while she sniffs, whether to say, "Well, I never," or because she's been moved to tears Harry can't be sure. All the same, she calms down.  
  
"Was that Italian?" Harry asks.  
  
"Not exactly. It's more--faux Latin, with words strung together like spells. I've got the accent all wrong."  
  
"She seemed to like it all right."  
  
"It's been out of fashion for a couple of centuries now. Perfect for placating Pureblood portraits."  
  
"Yeah, sorry about that. She was Sirius' mum. Right lunatic if you ask me, but I don't know how to take her down."  
  
"I don't mind her."  
  
"You don't  _mind_  her?"  
  
"Her ideas are...absurd, but she's bright for a portrait. I hope you don't mind that I enjoy talking to old Pureblood portraits--that is to say," he continues, as Harry grimaces, "they're full of anecdotal trivia. Links to the past. Just a different sort of conversation than the brilliant magbobs I know."  
  
"I don't mind if you like to talk to her, but...she's still rubbish."  
  
Guido smiles. "You do know how to get angry. Makes you feel alive."  
  
"What's that supposed to mean?"  
  
"Nothing. Just a note to myself."  
  


* * *

  
  
A year after the battle there's a ceremony at the Ministry. The Hogwarts kids get school off to go, and Harry has to be there for work anyway, so there's no wriggling out of it. For some reason he finds himself wanting Guido to be there, to sing in a chorus or something, but Guido is busy making small talk with Andromeda for hours beforehand, and Harry can't get a word in edgewise.  
  
So they begin, and it looks like that same officiator from Albus' funeral blathering on about something or another. Harry had talked Hermione into giving a speech for him and is able to make a quick exit when Teddy begins howling and Andromeda keeps stiffly sitting in her chair, unsure how to proceed.  
  
Teddy wails the rest of the way through, to Harry's secret relief. When he does reemerge, it's with Teddy tucked away out of sight and Harry grasping his wand, the noise of explosions in the air. He shouldn't be worried: it's just George's tribute, and Guido's sooty hands suggest that he was a willing accomplice.  
  
"I've been thinking about working there," Guido admits afterwards, once Teddy has been retrieved. "Part-time, at least. What with Ron doing more Auror training."  
  
"That sounds good! Is that your kind of thing?" Harry asks.  
  
Guido blushes. "It's a bit hypocritical, I know, to hole away writing in my room all day, trying to create something that lasts. But, yes, I've always had a secret love of explosives."  
  
"No need to keep it secret," Ron says fervently. "That was very exciting."  
  
"Sorry I missed the beginning," says Harry.  
  
Guido looks Harry up and down, then down at Teddy. "I don't think, today of all days, you have anything to apologize for."  
  
Teddy notices Andromeda and babbles at her as he tries to scoot across the nicely-polished Ministry floor. Harry grins. "Thanks."  
  


* * *

  
  
After Luna and Ginny leave school, Harry runs into them several times in Diagon Alley. Ginny signs with the Harpies' reserves immediately, and Luna seems to be spending a lot of time in conversation with Guido.  
  
"She helping you with the book?" Harry finally asks.  
  
"Oh, no," says Guido. "She's thinking about travelling to China for research. I'm giving her some addresses: correspondents of mine, places she might stay."  
  
"Oh. Okay. Are you...you two...." Guido doesn't respond, just continues to stare with a bemused glance, and Harry lamely concludes, "snogging?"  
  
Guido blinks, then says, "No."  
  
"That's fine!" Harry rushes. "I just--you know, wondered."  
  
"I have reason to believe I'm...unable to have children. Though I doubt Luna would mind."  
  
He brings it up so matter-of-factly that Harry presses on. "Is this about your scars?"  
  
"Not specifically. Just...various adventures in Transfiguration."  
  
"Oh. I--I'm sorry."  
  
"There's no need. I don't think I'd make a sound father, anyway, so no loss there. But what about you and Ginny?"  
  
"What about us?"  
  
"You two, as you so eloquently put it, 'snog.'"  
  
"Yeah," says Harry. "What's it to you?"  
  
"Is everything all right with you?"  
  
"Yes. Maybe. I don't know. It--I'm not sure how I  _feel_  about her, really, sometimes. I--I  _care_  about her; she makes me laugh and she's always there for me. But she needs someone who won't overshadow her--who won't be in a funk."  
  
"Everyone gets in funks once in a while."  
  
"Look at you. When have  _you_  been in a funk?"  
  
"When I have to say goodbye to people I don't ever expect to see again," Guido fires back, but even then he's not angry so much as resigned.  
  
"I'm sorry," says Harry.  
  
"Everyone gets in funks," Guido repeats, ignoring him. "Ginny doesn't expect you to be perfect."  
  
"Yeah, but--I don't know if I can be enough for her."  
  
"I think you've already done more than enough for anyone."  
  
"Okay, but I'm not even nineteen yet! Is it just--downhill from here?"  
  
"Do you want it to be?"  
  
"I don't know. I...I'm not sure if it's Ginny I want, after all. But I want to be normal: be a father, have a family, make new life."  
  
"Then you had better talk to her."  
  


* * *

  
  
When Guido does publish his first book, it's as "Blake Jackson." That he uses an assumed name is no surprise; that he does it in the Muggle world is somewhat stranger.  
  
"No one's going to believe half of it anyway," he explains. "Might as well reach a larger audience who's used to suspending their disbelief."  
  
Harry dutifully buys a copy, but Guido never asks for a review, and Harry never gives one. He's not sure what to call it, honestly. Some of it just looks like dry genealogical tables that Mrs. Black would approve of; other chapters are vague, hastily-sketched maps; and what passes as an epilogue is just a series of musical notes. There's what looks like history but is too boring for Harry to finish. Hermione does, out of some sense of duty, and calls it "incoherent at best," but bookmarks one footnote several hundred pages in.  
  
 _I have neglected to specify the exact locations of these events, in the hopes that careful readers have no desire to check my facts. You are, of course, quite entitled to call this a sign of sloppy writing, but even the best of us can focus on the wrong aspects of stories and, by extension, the wrong aspects of reality._  
  
She also makes sure Harry reads the dedication:  _For Albus, in gratitude_.  
  
It's by no means popular at first, but it's enough for Blake Jackson to rent a small flat in the Muggle world, with which he professes to be comfortable. Harry  _still_  hasn't seen whether he has a wand, but he shrugs it off. "I can still Apparate in, whenever. Besides, you'll want to be cooking your own food at some point."  
  
"Too right I will," says Harry. "But please, do come by--or do you have any family here in Britain?"  
  
"No. Though that hasn't stopped you, has it?"  
  
"That--look, I have the Weasleys and everyone. And George, I'm sure George would love to have you drop in."  
  
Guido cracks a smile. "Unannounced, of course. Preferably with my own supply of explosives?"  
  
"You've caught on."  
  
He nods. "I don't think he's quite seen the potential in the Muggle market. We'll have to diversify."  
  
"All the same. Can I help you move?"  
  
"No, I travel light."  
  
"I guess."  
  
"It'll be nice to have a place of my own--not have to worry about wearing oversized cloaks."  
  
"Okay," says Harry, holding out a hand to shake. "But, seriously. Come back whenever."  
  
Guido takes it gently, and then hugs Harry, who doesn't pull away.  
  


* * *

  
  
Afterwards, Grimmauld Place doesn't seem empty so much as dark. A few visits to Guido's flat confirm this; the latter dwelling is almost bare bar a pile of scrolls in a corner, but it does have the great advantage of electricity. Guido takes this for granted, but eventually suggests stashing some extra candles around. And pretty soon, Harry's begun collecting candles to float throughout the house. Luna sends some along from her travels in China; Ginny sends some after a European Cup match; Gabrielle Delacour owls one over; Charlie brings one when he visits home. Even Dudley gets him some Muggle candles for Christmas once Harry convinces him no, actually, that's exactly what he wants.  
  
At times it almost looks like a memorial ceremony, as if dozens of people have each brought a candle to honor their dead. It's part of his life, having to duck as a light floats by, and never quite forgetting those who have gone before him. Still, it pushes back the shadows and gives his life the added thrill of having to worry that the house could catch fire at any minute. After so many years of cooped-up waiting, a little tension over something small just feels natural.  
  
Then he starts decorating the walls. The House of Black tapestry stays up, but Kreacher begins restoring it, filling in Sirius' name, then Andromeda's and the Tonks/Lupins', gradually adding in a host of wizards and requiring a trip to Gladrags to acquire some socks to shred for more colorful thread. (With no need for secrecy: he had been officially granted his freedom by a ceremonial pair of Mr. Black's underpants. He kept on working but tucked the underpants under his pillow.)  
  
But it looks out of place, and he decides he needs to keep putting more on the walls. Guido copies out some old family trees from his manuscripts. Hermione recognizes a few of the names, but figures it's impossible for anyone to know whether they're accurate or not. Even Nearly Headless Nick was too young for some of the dates in the Blake Jackson chronicles to make sense.  
  
There are photographs--magical and Muggle alike. Both Orders of the Phoenix are framed, side by side, and several of their members scurry across from one picture to another to relay the latest gossip. Harry's not sure whether he wants to hang up Colin Creevey's photograph of Dumbledore's Army, but Guido talks him into it. "For all that came after, you were fifteen, they were your friends and classmates. There's nothing wrong with remembering your childhood friends--likely many of you would have grown apart, anyway."  
  
And then there are Quidditch pennants; Ron, Ginny, and Angelina Johnson (who, unlike Ron, had no qualms about sorting through Fred's rubbish in George's flat) have a long-term and good-natured rivalry over sport, and Harry ultimately hangs up several flags to appease them all. Not to be outdone, Dean Thomas ensures he has an extra West Ham United scarf. And after several months overseas ("research in India" was all he'd had to say about the subject), Guido eventually returns and endows him with a Moutohora banner.  
  
Even though Mrs. Black has been much more docile of late, Harry sticks one of Sirius's motorcycle posters across from her, just in case. Then he brings down the pictures of Sirius, Remus, James, and Peter, and the Slytherin Quidditch team, and sets them side by side on the mantel, after dodging a pair of custom-made candles from George along the way.  
  
It's mental, but at last it feels like home.  
  


* * *

  
  
Guido stays in his flat long enough to finish his second book. This one is brightly colored and features doodles on every chapter, some of which have to be another language and others that just look like scribbling. They're stories of some sort, but whether he means them as truth or fiction is unclear.  
  
"They're for children," he explains coolly. "Muggle children. Although, I suppose wizards could read them, too."  
  
Harry picks one up--it feels heavy in his hand. "Are children going to want to read something this thick?"  
  
"Of course they will."  
  
"Is it for school? History?"  
  
"No. Pardon me, but you of all people would know--most of history is just one death after another. It's a very human thing to keep track of."  
  
"As opposed to what?"  
  
"Werewolves measure by months. Centaurs by revolutions--of the Earth around the sun. Goblins, well, also by revolutions, but of a rather different sort."  
  
"Point taken. So this is just for fun, then?"  
  
"Of course. Childhood is a time for learning stories."  
  
"And adulthood is what, finding out the truth instead?"  
  
"In _stead_?" gapes Guido. "Hardly. I'd say--having the freedom to find wherever else magic might be hiding. But I'm not one to talk."  
  
"Not until you get a wand," Harry mutters. "You can't be that much older than me?"  
  
"Transfiguration is an...unpredictable branch of magic."  
  
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Wait, you had Albus for a  _teacher_? Or just as the headmaster."  
  
"I wasn't in his classroom, but I still think of him as my teacher."  
  
"That's...fair."  
  
"Anyway. Keep this, and if you don't care for it, give it to your godson when he's old enough to read."  
  
Harry nods, squinting as he looks around the room. It's even more barren than usual, not even a salad recommendation or ancient-looking parchment in sight. "You're not moving  _again_?"  
  
"I decided I liked living near wizards after all. A bit beyond Hogsmeade."  
  
"Not to Hogwarts?"  
  
"Up in the mountains. It'll be a nice place, not too messy."  
  
"In the mountains?"  
  
"It's just a good day's flight away. You'll have to come out. Bring your Firebolt."  
  
"You drive a hard bargain."  
  
"You still fly when you can, yes?"  
  
"When...I feel like it, yes. But these days--I'm busy at work, with my friends, it feels good just to keep my feet on the ground. Sorry, I know that's not your thing."  
  
"If it's yours," says Guido, "I'm glad for you."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Of course. If Albus were here he'd suggest going under the ground and riding the Muggle Tubs."  
  
"The Muggle--Guido, it's called the  _tube_."  
  
"Honest mistake! Well, you see what I mean: I need to get somewhere where I don't have to mind the gasps or whatnot."  
  
"It's the  _gap_ , but yes; yes, you clearly do. Drop in anytime."  
  
"You know I will.  _And_  if I can get in a magic house, I'll be on the Floo."  
  
"You're just looking for an excuse to set more things on fire, aren't you?"  
  
Guido throws up his hands. "Is that such a problem?"  
  
"Yeah. I think for the Muggle world's sake, you'd better move out."  
  


* * *

  
  
Good to his word, Guido drops in time and time again, usually unannounced. When Harry is the only one there, they relax and sometimes go out to eat so they don't wind up arguing about dinner, then come back until Harry talks Guido into serenading a portrait or two again. It's easier for Harry without knowing what the songs actually mean; if it's some prejudiced slew of insults, he'd rather not know.  
  
Sometimes there are Ministry people there: fellow Aurors who have invited themselves over or interviewers. Guido stammers out that he can wait, but Harry just grins at his "guests" and pleads a prior arrangement. It's hard for him to meet his friend's eyes for the next half hour or so, but getting to leave is worth it.  
  
And then there are times when he's out of the house, or actually having company over on his own. Playing Wizard's Chess with Ron, reading to Teddy (who quite enjoys The Tales of Beetle the Bard), or teaching Hermione how to cook more than three different meals a week. Harry always invites Guido to stay, and sometimes he does, but more often he smiles and says he really just wanted to Floo somewhere he knew in London and could catch a train from the nearest Tube station.  
  
When this happens more and more, Guido's visits become fewer and farther between. And then one day he shows up out of the blue, coughing and wheezing. "Are you okay?" Harry asks.  
  
"Clearly not," he mutters, his face pale. "Thanks for your concern."  
  
"Can you tell, is it magical? Do you want to go to St. Mungo's?"  
  
"I'll wait and see if it gets any worse. But tell me about your day."  
  
"My day? I mean, I was working at the Ministry. Same as usual."  
  
"It's not usual for me--tell me about it. What do you actually do?"  
  
"Paperwork," says Harry. "In the mornings, anyway. Procedure, just making sure everything's done the right way. For the best, but it's so hopelessly  _boring_."  
  
"And in the afternoons?"  
  
"Training. I guess I'm senior enough now that I get to work with the new kids once in a while. It's fun."  
  
"The new kids?"  
  
"Oh, yeah. There are a couple of them now, like Ron and I were. Not the same age--one of them took a couple years off first--but they're good."  
  
"So what do you do? Teach them how to fill out paperwork?"  
  
Harry chuckles. "Oh, I couldn't put anyone else through that. Duelling today."  
  
"Duelling. To practice?"  
  
"Well, of course. Younger one even beat me, lucky kid."  
  
"She beat you. In a duel?"  
  
"She was firing spells very quickly. Not the kind of thing that'd win a real fight--she has to be more selective--but I wasn't prepared for what she threw at me."  
  
The dullness in his face forgotten, Guido paces the room, hands behind his back. "Harry, I respect you greatly and I know you are more than old enough to make your own decisions. But did it ever cross your mind that becoming an Auror and mock-duelling people all day was  _a ridiculous idea_?"  
  
"No!" Harry fires back. "I want to help, I want to put away evil wizards, and I want to help the next generation do their thing, too. What's the problem with that?"  
  
"The problem, Harry, is that you are the Master of Death."  
  
"Oh not this rubbish--I mean, yes, I am, but can't I have a life? A career?"  
  
"Forgetting that for a moment, you are the true master of the Elder Wand, at least."  
  
"Right, and it's buried in Albus' grave where no one can get at it."  
  
"Is that what you said about Riddle?"  
  
"Well--do you see any dark wizards around?"  
  
"What I mean is, your trainee  _beat_  you in a duel. Whether or not she knows about the tomb, she is now the master--mistress?--of the most powerful wand in existence."  
  
Harry pauses.  
  
"Which might not even--" Guido coughs again, then sits on a couch, "--have been an issue, had you not trumpeted your mastery of the wand to a roomful of people in one of the better-chronicled events of wizarding history."  
  
"I got caught up in the heat of the moment, okay? What do you want?"  
  
"I would appreciate it--for the safety of the world, you understand--if you beat her in another mock duel before anyone else gets the chance."  
  
"Okay. And about your cough? You don't look any healthier."  
  
"You settle your own business first. I'll be all right."  
  
It's harder than it sounds. The next day the trainee is paired with Ron, who beats her handily, so as they go back to the desk that night Harry is tempted to just grab Ron's wand when he isn't looking before giving it back. But then would that defeat Ron's control of his own wand?  
  
By the end of the week, fortunately, the older trainee has defeated Ron and Harry has no qualms about quickly overwhelming him. Before he leaves that day, he asks Kingsley if they can put some enchantments in effect in the training rooms to temporarily prevent the transfer of magical loyalty. Kingsley says he'll "look into it" in a tone of voice that suggests "I don't know exactly what's going on here, take it up with Hermione if you can," and Harry does.  
  
The good news is that Guido, who had been holing up in Sirius' room and vomiting while refusing to be treated, is looking steadier by the weekend and Floos himself back. "Sorry to intrude. I just didn't want to be alone."  
  
"You're fine," says Harry. "Let me know if things get worse, okay?"  
  
"Okay," Guido says distantly.  
  
"I'll fly by. Check up on you."  
  
Guido rolls his eyes. "Fine."  
  
He does, but sure enough, Guido appears to have made a full recovery and is scribbling away. Stacked up on his desk are some writings by ancient Muggle philosophers,  _Hogwarts, a History,_  and tickets to a chamber music concert. Harry doesn't ask.  
  


* * *

  
  
As months become years and decades, they both change more and more between increasingly infrequent visits. When Minerva McGonagall dies, Harry is struck by how old Guido looks at the funeral. They apparently had been, if not close friends, correspondents on the subject of Transfiguration.  
  
"Wotcher, Neville," says Harry. "Neville Longbottom, you know all about him."  
  
"It's an honor!" says Guido.  
  
"And this is Guido, er--do I even know your last name? We've been friends for decades on and off, it's just never come up..."  
  
Guido seems to think for a moment, and then says "I hope you don't take this the wrong way--I think of you as a good friend and I've been getting away with calling you Harry--but Guido  _is_  my last name."  
  
"I--what? Is that Egyptian?"  
  
"More or less. My  _first_  name you couldn't pronounce." He spews off a few syllables. "Maybe Bill Weasley can. Just go with this and it'll spare you the effort."  
  
"Right," says Harry. "Drink, Neville?"  
  
"A snack is fine," Neville says. "Here, I'll get you some more."  
  
They snack quietly, the food tasteless. "I can't get used to this," Harry finally blurts. "Even--even not having seen her in years, really spoken to her. It's just...strange."  
  
"Excuse me." Neville swallows before continuing. "I know what you mean."  
  
"I think sometimes it's the strangest thing about being human," says Guido. "Trying to think about your own mortality, and everyone else's."  
  
"Uh-huh," Neville says vaguely.  
  
"And the second strangest thing is having toes."  
  
"Toes?" Harry repeats, sure he's misheard.  
  
"We all have ten of them. Independent ones, and what can you  _do_  with them? You can't hold a quill or a fork or scratch or carry something like you could with a talon. They're just useless!"  
  
"If you--you know, had your arms cursed off," Neville suggests, "you could adapt, learn to write with your toes."  
  
"But that seems so tedious. They don't serve any function at all. And we have  _ten_  of them! It's absurd."  
  
"Is this what you and Minerva wrote about?" asks Harry. "Transfiguring your toes into something worthwhile?"  
  
"No. But on balance, we  _should_  have done."  
  
Neville shakes his head. "On second thought, I guess I could go for a drink."  
  


* * *

  
  
Guido doesn't subscribe to newspapers, although he'll order a  _Quibbler_  once in a while "just to see the owls drop by." Harry decides to come by and deliver a  _Daily Prophet_  when he sees that it was written by a Muggle-born witch who loved Blake Jackson's books as a child before attending Hogwarts, and is now reviewing his latest oeuvre.  
  
"I don't read the critics," Guido declares. "I'm too faithful for the cynical ones and I'm too melancholy for the faithful ones."  
  
"I think you're plenty faithful. And not melancholy at all."  
  
"Everyone I get close to leaves me in the end--I've been burned too many times to be true to any more people, I think."  
  
"That's not fair. Look at me! I've known you for years, decades now, and we're still friends."  
  
Guido smiles, but faintly. "You're the exception."  
  
"As usual. But read this one, she's smart." Reluctantly, Guido skims it. "She thinks a lot of it is true."  
  
"It might be. Who's going to prove it to her, eh?"  
  
Harry takes the article back and browses through it again. "She says you could borrow a Time-Turner, try and look back on some of the events."  
  
"As incompetent as the Ministry is--"  
  
"Oy!"  
  
"--present company excepted, I think even they know better than to give out Time-Turners to any book critic wanting to jaunt into the past."  
  
"I guess. But aren't all the Time-Turners destroyed, anyway? Where'd she get that idea?"  
  
"Any...incident...destroying a large number of Time-Turners can only destroy however many are there  _then_."  
  
"Yeah, but... _oh_. Okay. I see. Sort of."  
  
"I'll have to write a story about that. Make the point clear."  
  
"Or you could just let someone interview you and clear things up."  
  
"Goodness no. I don't do interviews."  
  
"With that, old friend," says Harry, "I can sympathize."  
  


* * *

  
  
Grimmauld Place is still full of candles, but Harry lights fewer and fewer of them. Too great a risk that one day something will catch fire that shouldn't, and now that he is no longer fast enough to sprint from one corridor to the next, it's easier just to leave them be.  
  
The house stands empty; he has once again become the Man Who Lived, he thinks, but he cannot say the same of his comrades, and without them to visit, the silence is overwhelming.  
  
Guido, at least, drops by every once in a while. They have the good fortune of both enjoying health around the same time--looking back Harry can't remember a time when he had Dragon Pox but Guido was itching to fly, or when his friend was laid up with Scrofungulus while he was bored of the same old dinners.  
  
Harry doesn't  _fall_  ill, that summer, so much as drift ill, gradually worsening day by day until one of Ron and Hermione's grandchildren drags him to St. Mungo's. When the pain is worst, he has little power to speak, and he can say what passes for goodbyes without needing to put too much effort into it. That way is good enough.  
  
After a few days, however, he is, while still old and frail, at least stable enough to go home--there's no point in him lying around and taking up an extra bed. Guido joins him a few days later; "yes, I'd been quite sick too," he explains. His hair has been gone for decades now.  
  
"And you didn't go to St. Mungo's?"  
  
"Tried a Muggle doctor."  
  
"What'd he tell you?"  
  
"That I needed more iron in my diet," Guido smiles. "I told him where he could stick it."  
  
"Diplomatic to the last, you are. Er. Poor choice of words."  
  
"No offense taken. I suppose I'm ready for--how did Albus put it?"  
  
"The next great adventure?"  
  
"That's the one."  
  
"Good. I suppose I am too."  
  
Guido nods. "I suspect...."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
"Go on."  
  
"That is to say, I expect I shall not outlive you by very long, if it comes to that. Call it a hunch."  
  
"That's fair, I'd just as soon not have to bury you. Do you have any family here, friends? Anyone you can be with? Or are you going back to Egypt?"  
  
"I've been, recently enough to...settle my affairs."  
  
"Okay. I can keep checking up on you, if you'd like."  
  
"That won't be necessary."  
  
"Are you sure? Are you--"  
  
"Harry."  
  
"What?"  
  
"You have always been a humble man, and I don't think you understood how much you've meant, not just to witches and wizards, but the world of magic as a whole."  
  
"Yes, but--"  
  
"Please don't worry about me."  
  
"I'm not worried."  
  
Guido nods. "Then I'll be off."  
  
"You can stay a while. It's silly for us to be alone."  
  
"Would you.... Would you like to come to the mountains with me?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"It's a good place to spend some time. Get out of doors, have a view of the school. Peaceful."  
  
"I--yes," says Harry. "That sounds nice."  
  
"Very well, then. Whenever you're ready."  
  
"Okay. Well, look, this sounds morbid, but I want to talk to Mrs. Black."  
  
"The portrait?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"It's good that you have such diverse conversational partners."  
  
Harry rolls his eyes. "Er. Hullo in there?"  
  
"Yes?" she says, almost politely.  
  
"I'm going to visit Guido for a bit. If someone's looking for me, let them wait, I need a vacation. But if I don't come back.... Well, Guido will know what to do. And if he doesn't--tell whoever, that's where you'll find us."  
  
"The mountains are large," Guido adds. "Don't look too long for a body, and if you don't find one--don't expect the impossible."  
  
"Even from Potter here?" she says dubiously.  
  
"I've done my job," says Harry, "I think it's about time for a rest."  
  
"I'll pass that along," she says. "You gentlemen enjoy yourselves."  
  
Guido takes Harry's hand, and they are off.  
  
The house itself is barely big enough for both of them; Harry can't tell if Guido had just charmed the cave Sirius and Hagrid stayed in. So they spend their time out of doors--flying a lot, two to the broom. Slowly, looking down on the village, and once circling the school at dusk. Albus' tomb still shines below them, and there is the Quidditch pitch and Gryffindor Tower, out of reach but right where they belong.  
  
It's the next morning that Harry can barely haul himself out of bed, and not just because it's not much of a bed. Guido manages to stand, but his face is dull and his movements slow.  
  
"Let me go back," Harry groans. "No sense in you seeing me like this, I don't--"  
  
"As if I look any more dignified than you?" Guido wheezes. "Come outside."  
  
They fumble out the door and sit together on an outcrop a few minutes--Guido's hand feels solid amid the weakness of Harry's own.  
  
"Do you smell smoke?" Harry ventures.  
  
"I don't smell anything. Could just be my nose going."  
  
They stand, and Harry looks towards the little house. "I could have sworn you had the stove on. Making breakfast?"  
  
"Not today, no."  
  
"You weren't?"  
  
Guido begins to hum softly, and embraces Harry. Then there is a certain burst of smoke, but Harry doesn't cry out, even as it seems like a warmth is rising from between their chests. At last he feels what it means to be truly the Master of Death, the one who opens the way to new life, even for those who had lost all hope.  
  
There's a glow of flame even Harry's weak eyes can see and a warmth all around them as their bodies fall away. It is the last Burning Day, the last enemy has been destroyed, and what they will become is something new.  
  
Through it all comes a music, and Harry knows he has found words for it now.  _Come soar_ , it says, and so he does.


End file.
